


Coiled Serpents

by Cat_Sith (Vengeful_Dogs_Of_War)



Category: RWBY, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alpha Legion - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Gen, Other, Space Marines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vengeful_Dogs_Of_War/pseuds/Cat_Sith
Summary: During the height of the Great Crusade, on the galactic fringe the 934th Expeditionary fleet arrives at a long lost human colony. The warriors of the Alpha Legion descend upon the world of Remnant to find a civilization united by technological heresy. Unity can be fractured, and none are better at this than the Alpha Legion. Such heresy must be expunged, and the world must be pacified and brought into the Imperium, by any means necessary.New warriors are needed more than ever on Remnant as the Grimm attacks grow more and more relentless. Ozpin knows better than anyone the danger they face, and the threat the woman who commands them is. Now more than ever unity is needed to ensure the survival of the Kingdoms, but strange occurrences keep mounting. His eternal war against Salem has just become a lot more complicated.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Coiled Serpents

**Author's Note:**

> This was something bouncing around my head for a while. I've always found the idea of a crossover between these two universes to be a fascinating one, especially because of the inherent contrast in the tone of both universes. I've always been a fan of the Alpha Legion, and always wanted to try my hand at writing them. 
> 
> I don't plan on featuring any Primarchs or delving into the heresy. This is meant to be a more enclosed, focused story that won't tie into any larger galactic narrative. Obviously the story of RWBY will take radical turns due to a radical change in circumstances, if my writing can deliver. As always, any feedback is really appreciated and welcome. 
> 
> Cheers, and thanks for reading!

The night sat still deep within the forest, only the slow sigh of the wind gently weaving through the leaves breaking the silence as four figures advanced further into the clearing. The moon above cast rays of light down onto the carnage. Corpses strewn around a wagon, deep gashes and missing limbs, pools of blood seeping into the grass. 

The party recoiled. They continued their approach slowly, falling back on their instincts and training, fanning into a loose diamond to cover all approaches. Hands drifted closer to their respective weapons, each a unique artifact and deadly unknown. Everyone of their station carried one, a hand forged relic made from the finest alloys and harnessing a deadly mixture of imagination and tradition to create new and innovative ways to kill. They were hard to anticipate, but also offered clues into the fighting style of each opponent. Their mindset. Their strength, and in turn, their weakness. 

It was something they knew well, distinction was weakness. A uniform face presented to the enemy revealed nothing. 

The ten astartes of squad Theta stayed absolutely motionless. Holding in position to spring the trap, they continued their ten hour vigil. Their targets stopped in front of the source of their revulsion. A family of the faunus sub-human strain, their corpses strewn around a small cart of produce. The first target grimaced, the lines on his face turning hard at the position of the bodies. The mother lying over the body of the daughter, green shirt torn and soaked with blood, her arms and legs a swath of deep gashes and cuts. The father in a crumpled heap nearby with a rusty stubber in his hands. In the wreckage of the cart the final body was barely visible amid the pools of blood and fruit. The fruit itself had turned a ghastly red tainted by both rot and the blood seeping into every inch. Soon the swollen produce would burst open, a nesting ground to the maggots drawn by the dead. 

“Who did this?” the third whispered, her voice guttural and strained by emotion. Each member of squad Theta noticed her elevated heart-rate, the dilation of her pupils, the fluid grace every limb possessed even under stress and instinctual movement. She stepped past the first without a thought, eyes locked on the body of the child. 

The fourth turned, eyes scanning the forest slowly, methodically. Several fingers tightened a fraction against their triggers, waiting deep in the murky shadows of the thick forest trees. Tucked into the darkest shadows, obscured by swathes of thick spring leaves, hiding beneath their camo-cloaks the astartes were invisible even to the trained eyes and advanced optics of each other. The fourth frowned, running a hand up the hilt of her dagger before turning away. 

The first brought his palms together. Brow furrowed in concentration, he took in the scene. Pieced together every bit of information, every shred of purposely placed evidence, mind racing down the designated paths. Lost in the horror of what was before him the target failed to comprehend the larger picture, oblivious to the hook underneath the gouges and blood and false hope. 

The targets were appointed as protectors of the realm, quasi-military units acting autonomously in the field, with no set skills, armaments, or tactics. The only baseline being superhuman speed, strength, and durability. So many unknowns meant ambushes were the optimal method of attack. With centralized communication and basic voxcasters, it was easy to mimic a distress call. So their sergeant ordered they set an ambush, desecrating the tombs of a local village afflicted by a plague to provide the fodder. The local predators were simplistic but lethal killers, their claws and fangs easy to replicate, the bodies maimed and positioned so their targets would arrive and take in the scene. See the small body beneath the huddled corpse of the mother. Duty and hope would make them check to see if the child lived. The first reached out and gently pulled the mother off of the child. 

And activated the melta bomb underneath. 

The first reacted, kicking the corpse away towards the edge of the clearing with a shout of warning to his comrades. Against the power of nuclear fusion in a package meant to breach starship hulls it did little. An inferno engulfed the clearing, burning away trees completely. For a split second a miniature sun was born. The four targets vanished in the flames, the entire forest choked with smoke and embers. It should have been enough, even against others of their kind. But they never underestimated their targets anymore. 

The forest shook with heavy thuds, a stampede of noise flickering above and below the roar of the flames. Ten sets of footfalls all converging from their concealed positions, bolters raised and firing deep into the swirling smoke and flames. Each miniature rocket cut a swath through the haze, revealing the two remaining targets. 

Layer upon layer of light encased both, a twisting lattice flickering weakly across their skin, each a different color. The third was on her knees with a stubber braced against her shoulder, the weapon dented and scorched. The second stood next to her with his arms raised. Both faced the five astartes advancing from over a kilometer away. Encased in such heavy armor they should not have been moving that fast, weaving that deftly through the trees while firing with such pinpoint accuracy. A bizarre mixture of super and human moving almost beyond the ability to track. 

The third’s scope was shattered but she fired with pinpoint accuracy anyway. Her first shot aimed at the eye of the closest soldier, but his advance was too fast; the bullet impacted harmlessly against the soldier’s massive pauldron. A second shot never came, the third thrown backwards as two bolter shells detonated against her shield with the force of grenades. Her shield blazed weakly, but held. To her credit, she rolled backwards while two more bolter rounds tore craters into the ground she was on a second earlier. 

The second was too busy fighting for his own life to spare a glance at his comrade, gloves glowing with more of the native minerals to this world. The three converging warriors split up, bolters aiming for his joints and head. They had dealt with many of these teams, and those that used weapons like this were the most dangerous, the most unpredictable and hard to counter. Bolter shells raced towards the second, too fast to dodge but slow enough that his gloves flared. 

The ground tore itself open, splitting like a dagger had been dragged across it, straight towards the closest astartes. In less time than it took to blink he had absorbed this sudden change and adapted. Charging faster to meet the fracture, the soldier’s boots slammed into the loose plates of earth tearing themselves free, shattering them even as he advanced further into the rapidly collapsing chasm. He never stopped firing, and on the third step he leaped. It was a feat that should have been impossible, that much armor and bulk leaving the earth at all, let alone so far. It was something that sent a shiver of disbelief and terror through their targets, through anyone that saw them in action. 

Forged by The Emperor, the greatest man to ever live, they were designed to be the perfect warriors, to strike fear in the hearts of all they faced. Transhuman dread. It was that transhuman dread, that disbelief that cost the second his opportunity to react, to lash out and send the soldier crashing deep into the chasm, saving his life. 

Instead the soldier landed. Raised his bolter and fired in one fluid motion. The second raised a hand and countered it with a dust blast, but the other two were still firing, still closing. Two more bolter shells connected with the second from opposite directions. The explosions sent him staggering backwards, wreathed in blue light, hands raised to fend off further attacks. The firing squad was slowly circling, methodically firing into his weak points. Explosions enveloped the second’s hands, head, legs and battered down his shield with precise accuracy. A relentless barrage, each impact an explosion whose force snapped his head back, drove the wind from his lungs and sent him reeling.

It was over in three seconds. The blue shield flickered and died, leaving the second vulnerable, isolated. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mind desperating racing to overcome the sluggishness of his thoughts, the utter impossibility of the situation. His assassins moved faster than his shell-shocked and battered arms, and opened fire. 

The first round detonated against his left glove. A bolter shell exploding and taking his entire forearm with it in an explosion of viscera. A second round silenced the scream before it began, penetrating his skull and detonating, sending a shower of bone fragments and specks of blood into the flames. By the time they had confirmed their kill, the second was a mangled carcass barely recognizable as human. 

One muted click signalled his death to the rest of the soldiers. 

The third soon followed, desperately trying to create distance from the unstoppable force in front of her. It moved as a blur, one hand clutching a blade as long as her forearm, the steel cackling with energy, tiny arcs of energy racing up the serrated edge. The astartes pressed his attack,  the blade no more than a dagger in his hand. 

Even her aura enhanced speed and reflexes could barely track the movements of this abomination. It was a storm, a hurricane of slicing steel and martial perfection, every thrust and slash forcing her to dodge in increasingly limited ways. Despite the third’s best efforts the blade bit into her shield again and again, the light pulsing weakly around the blade’s edge. The shield flared and slowly gave as the energy field surrounding the blade sparked, cutting through its protection slowly with every slice. 

The dance continued, the third’s breathes growing ragged, her lungs burning as the smoke continued to build from the inferno around them. Weighed down by her stubber, she failed to avoid the fist that sent her through the charred remains of a tree. The landing sent her sprawling, stubber landing several meters away. 

The astartes was above her before she could even rise to her knees. Teal armor flickering in the fire’s light, most of his body shrouded underneath a cloak constantly changing patterns to match its surroundings. Two red lenses surveyed her dispassionately from underneath the hood’s shadow. The third glared up at the bolter levelled at her, eyes filled with hatred. 

“Who are you?” Every syllable dripped with venom. 

He levelled the bolter at her forehead, “I am Alpharius.” 

The blow that severed his hand came out of nowhere, slicing through the gap in his ceramite plate between wrist and forearm. There was no hesitation, no shock, the astartes simply reacted. Gene-forged mind analyzing while his second heart activated, pumping a cocktail of adrenaline and other chemicals into his blood. 

Slice attack, no visible projectile, a new weapon, a new attacker? It was impossible to tell. The wound had clotted before the hand hit the ground, blood sizzling in the flames. The astartes staggered under a hail of successive blows coming from nowhere. Gouges appeared on his armor, cutting deep into the ceramite plate but failing to pierce it. 

Two more astartes were already closing, bolters raised and firing at the third before she could rejoin the fight. Unable to dodge and her shield pushed to its limit the third didn’t even last as long as the second, a bolter shell taking her in the throat and tearing her head from her body. 

One muted click signalled the second kill to the others. 

There were only two remaining targets, each isolated and cut off from the other, just as designed. The fourth was the next to die. 

Armed with only twin knives barely longer than their fingers it was hardly a fight and more of an execution. Fighting against two astartes in heavy armor who moved faster and hit harder the fourth was forced on the defensive. Every attempt to strike at an exposed joint in the armor thwarted by centuries of swordsmanship, while blades slipped past the fourth’s guard to batter down the rapidly failing cocoon of energy. 

Ducking under one slash, the fourth was sent flying by an armored knee slamming into her neck with enough strength to shatter concrete. Jagged pieces of teeth fell in a rain with several shards tearing into her lips and jaw. Shield shattered, the fourth whimpered in agony as a jagged tree branch pierced her thigh on landing. She tried to raise her blade in a futile attempt to fend off her death. A single armored boot slammed down, shattering the bone and contorting the limb to a horrifying angle. Shattered pieces of the fourth’s bones erupted from her skin, her muscles ripped into shreds and her arm forced into an almost right angle. A single knife thrust pierced her throat, silencing her weak moans and clogging her lungs with blood. 

One muted click signalled her death to the rest of the soldiers. 

Only the first remained, hidden by his own unique brand of magic. He rained blow after blow down on the retreating wounded sergeant. His eye lense shattered from one such blow, shards burying themselves in the eye beneath. For the first time the astartes broke his silence, roaring in pain. Behind the pain his gene-forged mind analyzed, felt the weight and resistance to the strike and reached several conclusions. 

He raised his foot and slammed it down into the blood soaked ground. The tremor lasted only a second, but it was enough. His shield pushed to the limit, choked with smoke and overwhelmed with rage and grief, the first’s concentration faltered. His invisibility shroud collapsed for a second. 

That second was enough. 

The astartes’ useless helmet struck his stomach like a cannon, driving the breath from his chest and sending a string of bile up his throat. One eye a ruined pulp of meat and glass shards, the astartes advanced with a roar. The wound didn’t slow him in the slightest. Blood streamed down the astartes’ face, one hand missing, yet he moved faster. Fought harder. Channeled his pain into a lethal blend of adrenaline and rage.

The first’s sword stopped the stab. He broke away in a desperate bid to catch his breath. The sergeant gave him no such reprieve, using his handless limb like a club to continue the assault. It smashed into his leg and sent the first staggering back, the following sword slash missing his throat by inches. The first launched a counter-attack, seeking to drive him back. 

His greatsword spun in a deadly arc, striking for the wounded astartes’ blind side. It was a simple but effective tactic to exploit the lack of depth perception. With superhuman finesse and grace the knife intercepted one blow, then another. Even with the advantage of his blade’s superior reach the first could only land glancing slashes against his foe. Each crack of adamantium crashing against ceramite rose above the roar of the flames. 

In an exemplary display of swordsmanship, the first’s sword feinted underneath the sergeant’s raised arm to drive deep into his thigh using the gap in his armor. The wet sound of metal sliding into flesh elicited a small but feral grin from the first.

The hilt of the astartes’ knife struck his chin a second later, the metal hilt carrying enough force to pulverize bone. With a grunt of pain the first’s shield gave out and his bones shattered with a sickening crunch. He staggered backwards, both hands clutching his broken and bleeding jaw, chips of teeth falling between his fingers. Only then did he notice the other members of squad Theta standing around them.

Bolters clutched to their chests. Watching. 

The wounded astartes withdrew the first’s sword with a grunt, rising to his feet with a wince. He swung the blade around experimentally and ignored the blood running down his thigh. Facing the first, he threw the blade across the clearing. Spinning end over end it landed at his feet with a small ring. The first slowly reached down and retrieved his ancestral blade, never breaking eye contact with the inhuman abomination in front of him. 

Realization dawned. This was a martial challenge, an honor duel at the end of a vicious and cunning ambush designed to spare no quarter. 

The first charged, hoping to put his opponent off balance. The sergeant rushing to meet him. His movements were a fraction slower, his footwork lagging behind his bladework by a span less than a human breath. Perhaps, perhaps at his peak the first would have been able to exploit this. As it was, it only slowed his death. The astartes twisted to avoid the first’s slash, knife weaving in a complex feint. The first moved to avoid a strike that never came. The knife rammed into his kidney. The first’s sword dropped from his fingers, the ring of steel clattering against the sergeant’s metal boot carrying across the clearing. He sucked for air that wouldn’t come, wincing at the hammer blow against his side, eyes uncomprehending.

The sergeant leaned in. Up close his face was even more of a hideous wreck. Blood ran down over scars from a dozen different engagements, his lips split and cracked. A large piece of glass sliced deep into his right eye, a puss filled sack no longer in sync with his other all. His entire face was disjointed and covered in blood and ash. 

That didn’t stop him from smiling and twisting the knife. “I am Alpharius, and I am death.” He answered the question the first didn’t have the strength to ask. 

The astartes spat, his acid spit landing on the first’s face with a wet sizzle. Flesh melted and the first’s lips dissolved before he could scream. Smoke rose from his face and the smell of charred flesh touched his nose. He watched the first gurgle and sink to his knees, eyes empty and hollow before the acid took them. Touched his ruined eye with his one good hand, and smiled. 

“Target down.” The words signalled signalled the first’s death to his squad mates. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


#  Chapter 1

_ Hello, you’ve reached the Schnee Dust Company automated response service. Please state your query and wait to be directed to the appropriate department. _

_ This is Taipan 843-798. _

_ Confirmed, line secure. Report. _

_ The higher ups are getting nervous, too many shipments have gone missing.  _

_ Do you have anything to report agent?  _

_ I do. General Ironwood has requested a shipment to Vale, all top end stuff. The risks I had to take to get this information- _

_ Report agent.  _

_ It leaves from the Orion facility at 0600 tomorrow and joins the main track past Bisbee. I caught a glimpse of the directors requisition forum, something’s off.  _

_ Define ‘off’.  _

_ It was a joint-task force dossier. It looks like specialist teams will be deployed as security.  _

_ Understood. Thank you for the report, lay low and await further orders.  _

_ An internal investigation has been launched, I used the decoy trail you specified but I think they’re onto me. Wilson was arrested but agents are still snooping. _

_ We take care of our own, your tracks will be covered. A cover story has been devised and additional steps will be taken. Instructions will be at the dead drop. Hydra Dominatus.  _

_ Hydra Dominatus.  _

  
  


“Another team went missing.” 

Ozpin looked up from his papers for the first time since Qrow entered. “Who?” 

“Another first year team, out on what was supposed to be a milk run in Mistral.” Qrow leaned against one of the pillars in Ozpin’s office, studying the spinning gears of the clock above. The steady clunk of the gears made his head hurt. “Third team this month.” 

“I know.” 

“Then what the fuck are you doing about it? Something out there is killing Huntsmen and you don’t seem to be doing anything beyond sending more students to their deaths.” 

A ghost of a scowl crossed Ozpin’s face and was gone again. He pulled his chair forward and set down a stack of papers. The desk was littered with reports, missing persons, profiles of students killed, and dust invoices. He met Qrow’s gaze for the first time since they started, the bags barely visible underneath his spectacles. Even the coffee cup on his desk was haggard, cold and stale for the first time since Qrow could remember. 

Qrow opened his mouth to speak again, but Ozpin forestalled him with a hand. “I’m not doing nothing. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.” 

“While something runs wild out there picking us off one by one.” 

“What would you have me do Qrow? Send an army into the wilderness in search of assassins? Whoever is doing this is skilled enough to ambush and overpower huntsmen.” 

Qrow snorted, “Kids.”

“Huntsmen.” Ozpin’s glare brokered no argument. 

Scowling, he kicked off his pillar and walked closer to the desk. Pacing always helped him think, and the rhythmic sound of his old boots against the glass floor was relaxing. Ozpin watched him pace. Qrow reached into his coat and withdrew his flask, savoring the cool press of the worn metal flask against his hand. The alcohol was cheap and seared his throat but it was warm. He had long since stopped being picky, preferring strength over taste. 

Qrow swallowed with a grunt and broke the silence. “Probably not an army, but sending in more students won’t help anything.” 

“No, which is why I sent you.”

“For all the good that did. I went out there and found what was left of those poor kids.” Qrow threw his scroll onto Ozpin’s desk, “Whatever killed them certainly wasn’t Grimm. They came in hard and fast packing serious ordinance.  _ ATLAS  _ level ordinance.” 

Setting down his coffee mug, Ozpin picked up the scroll. Qrow watched him scroll through the pictures he took and tried not to think about them again. Teenagers dead in piles of their own organs, entire limbs shattered into bone fragments and gore. Most of their faces missing entire chunks of flesh. It had taken everything Qrow had to not throw up on the spot, yet Ozpin’s expression never left the inscrutable mask he always wore. Sometimes he disturbed Qrow more than the Grimm.

After a minute he spoke. “What was left behind?”

“Nothing except the bodies. No shells, no dust rounds, no explosive canisters, site was completely clean.” Qrow snorted at the morbid irony. 

“They were sending a message, left the bodies to be discovered. Why? Fear tactics, martial pride, hubris? They want us to know they’re out there.” 

“Well it’s certainly working, and whoever is behind this is getting bolder. On my way back I felt like I was being watched, followed in several towns. I expect there will be attacks on full-fledged huntsmen soon.” 

Ozpin sighed and stood up. He cut a surprisingly intimidating figure, standing several inches over Qrow’s respectable height with a build more suited to a champion huntsman than a headmaster. Clad in a black vest and an extremely well fitted dark green coat, he commanded any room he entered with a quiet authority that went well beyond his outfit and into his eyes. A rich hazel, they pierced into the soul of anyone who ever met them. They carried the weight of the shrewd and ruthless mind behind them well, always appraising and calculating. Qrow had seen many students and bureaucrats pinned underneath the weight of that stare, and pitied all of them. 

Perhaps the most impressive part of Ozpin was the way he moved. It went beyond a dancer’s grace or a fighter’s efficiency into something that almost transcended human. Ozpin wasn’t just graceful and efficient, he moved like someone that not only commanded every inch of his own body but every part of the world around him. The cane at his side seemed less like a movement aid and more like a king’s scepter, a symbol of one chosen by the gods. 

“A new player has entered the game.” Ozpin looked out at Vale, his voice as unshakable as the tower around him. 

Qrow stepped up beside him. “A new player. You’re serious? You don’t think Salem was behind this?”

“Yes. The great game has a new player for the first time in a thousand years. Salem likes to keep her agents at each other’s throats and as independent as possible. It makes it harder for me to root out her cells and crush them. She uses Grimm as her brute force, and occasionally organized malcontents.” 

“Very organized malcontents.” 

“Maybe so, but not to this degree. I have seen my fair share of dead during the Great War, and no dust weapon killed those huntsmen. Why would Salem spend her time and resources developing weapons beyond what we use today? What would she gain by exploring the theoretical possibility of non dust based ballistics to this extent, and why have we never heard of it? The time, manpower and resources needed to create something like what was used would have been picked up by someone.”

“So maybe it was some new player,” Qrow shrugged, “That doesn’t make all that any

less true. Weapons like these can’t just have appeared out of nowhere, and someone out there obviously has a bone to pick with the academies. So who is it and where did they come from?”

Ozpin raised an eyebrow and rested both hands on his cane. “That Qrow, is the question I must find an answer for.” 

Qrow looked out the window at the Vale city skyline. Out at the city he had been fighting for and in his entire life. Back when he and Raven had first come to Vale from their secluded life in the forests the city had seemed so alien and bizarre, but after several decades sliding between sleazy bars and criminal hives Qrow knew Vale like the back of his hand. From the blissfully ignorant people cheerfully going through life day by day to the insufferable politicians leaching off honest people’s fears and the gutter rats festering the Vale’s dark underbelly, Qrow had seen it all. Or so he thought. 

He thought he knew exactly what lurked out in the wilderness, the threats that worked tirelessly to bring humanity to its knees. Year after year he stalked Vale’s streets, tracking informants and executing traitors-to-be. Piecing together Salem’s plan scrap by scrap between bottles and trying to whip kids too young to even conceptualize death into killers. 

The idea that something else was lurking in the shadows left him feeling cold. Qrow was liberal with his criticism, but Ozpin always radiated a calm certainty that he would prevail. He had for ten thousand years. But this was different, on a scale neither were willing to admit out loud. Looking out at Vale’s towering skyscrapers and packed streets a sense of unease took him. He would have to be more careful than ever. 

“Go and find our enemies. I must manage the council and the students.” Ozpin tapped a single finger against his cane. “The class must be expanded. We will need more huntsmen than ever.”

“You mean soldiers.” 

“Yes. If you want peace-”

“Prepare for war.” 

Blake Belladonna watched the severed train car gradually disappear around the bend of the track. Watched Adam drift away, his eyes like burning coals pressed against her skin. Unable to look away she bore the full weight of that stare, all the rage and confusion washing over her. As if he could somehow control what was happening through sheer force of will. Adam had always been obsessed with control. Stripping it from him after so long gave her no small amount of satisfaction, a tyrant was a tyrant no matter what species they were. 

In the quiet hours of the past several months she had thought long and hard about what this moment would be like. She expected to feel grief, sad that it had to come to this. Blake felt none of that. Instead a strange sense of calm and relief took hold the more distance she put between the broken shell of the man she had fallen in love with. Adam and the White Fang were dead to her. Blake savored her new-found freedom, focusing only on the wind whipping through her hair and relishing how crisp and clear everything seemed. 

A fresh start waited for her at Vale. 

Inside the next train cabin crates were stacked in an unorganized mess reaching all the way to the car’s roof. Apparently even Atlas’s renowned military still fell victim to basic human nature, crates full of volatile dust canisters and weapons wedged together with no regard for the contents. The mess suited Blake fine, giving her plenty of space to climb up towards the deepest and darkest corner she could find. She had learned running in the streets never to sleep exposed. 

Pressed against the train car’s wall and stretched out in the shadow of several taller crates, Blake found herself falling asleep faster than she expected. Whether from the physically and mentally exhausting day, or the quiet hum of the train gliding across the tracks, it became increasingly difficult to keep her eyes open. Blake didn’t resist as sleep enveloped her. 

She was so exhausted that the door sliding open didn’t wake her, but the first foot entering the car did. Blake’s eyes flew open, her entire body tensed and ready to spring away from the cops or roaming lynch mobs. Two men entered slowly, unfamiliar rifles raised and panning from one corner of the room to the other. Careful to keep herself motionless, Blake observed. 

Each wore armor unlike anything she had seen before. Clad in a midnight black body-glove they faded into the shadows, even the armor plates attached to their bodies bore no insignia or identifying markers. A virtual armory adorned their armor. Various pouches strapped in easy reach, several knife sheaths and grenades, and one carried a massive cylindrical shape that looked vaguely like a bomb strapped to his pack. Balaclavas hid their faces, but with her enhanced sight Blake could pick out twin sets of violet eyes. 

Their weapons were similarly alien, looking somewhat like a semi-automatic hunting rifle, except their barrels were longer and Blake couldn’t see any visible vent for dust buildup. Each rifle swept the room with military precision, the two men fanning out in perfect sync. Trained professionals. Most likely some new branch of the Atlas military, another arm of the ever expanding and evolving hydra dedicated solely to cracking down on the White Fang since the end of the Great War. 

One lowered his gun and stopped. “Clear.” The other nodded and followed suit, resting his rifle against his shoulder. “Looks like more weapons.” 

Their accent was unlike anything Blake had ever heard before. There wasn’t enough pronunciation to be Atlesian and way too much of a drawl in their words for them to be Mistralian or part of Vaccuo. They didn’t pronounce their vowels like anyone Blake had ever heard in Vale before either. She narrowed her eyes, curious. The first popped open a crate and peered inside. “Ammo too. Fug, never had trouble telling a world’s drugs and a world’s ammunition apart before.” 

“The wildlife is pretty bad too, heard Miller’s boys ran into some big old ork looking freaks. Saw the debrief, reminded me of the Kayvas Belt.” 

“Yeah,” The first shut the lid and moved to another crate. “Still, nice to be conquering a place that’s civilized. No xenos, no fuss. Just straight up humans.” 

The second slung his rifle over his shoulder and bent over to pick up a crate. Grunting as he lifted it up, he turned towards the door. “Except for those animal people, looks like some poor sod got desperate to fug a goat way back when. As far as xenos, I prefer’em. Easier to sleep at night sneaking around a dumb fungus than knifing your own in the back.” 

“I’ve seen what some of ‘our own’ got up to back at Nurth. Trust me friend, when you watch half an expeditionary force get snuffed out in a blink of an eye by black magick you stop caring about who is on the other side.” 

“Stuff like that really makes you appreciate the Emperor.” The second said before walking out of the door.

Blake wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. Too many questions were bouncing around her head about who these people were and what places they were talking about, but she stifled them. Her feet made no noise at all landing on the train floor, Gambol Shroud’s pistol raised and ready to fire. Years of sneaking through Atlas supply depots and back alleys meant that sneaking up on this lone soldier was childsplay. He stiffened and let go of the crate when Gambol Shroud’s barrel nudged against his neck. 

“Drop your gun.” He complied, sliding his rifle off his shoulder and kicking it away with a whispered curse. 

“Hands up, interlock them behind your head and kneel.” 

The soldier complied, slowly raising his hands up and sliding them behind his head. Blake had to give him credit, even when expecting it the explosion of motion managed to catch her off guard. His fingers wrapped around the barrel pressed against his head, yanking it to the side before a bullet could take off his head. That same second his kick connected with Blake’s knee, the soldier using the momentum to bring her arm down to break it over his shoulder. 

Blake’s shadow clone dissolved into wisps of smoke. Ignoring the soldier’s obvious confusion she stepped forward and levelled Gambol Shroud at his forehead. “Answer my questions and we can both walk away happy.”

“You don’t threaten me.” The soldiers voice was perfectly calm, his eyes never leaving hers. “And you don’t strike me as a soldier.” 

“How many of you are there?” 

“Enough.”

Blake frowned, careful to keep a careful distance from the soldier. She was confident she could take him, but the noise would attract the attention of his comrades. A thunk from the car in front of her made her ears twitch. 

The soldier noticed too. “My friend is going to come back. Didn’t think this one entirely through, did you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Stealing. What the fug does it look like? When he comes back he isn’t going to be alone. This entire train is filled with others like me. Right now we’re alone, and can work something out. That’ll change when my friend gets back, because he’s a trained soldier like me. When he sees you pointing a gun at me he won’t hesitate to shoot you.” 

“Where did you come from? Why are you doing this?” Blake scowled and tightened her grip on Gambol Shroud. A bead of sweat trickled down her back.

“Nowhere important, and because I was ordered to. You do realize you’ll have to shoot me.” The soldier slowly reached one hand over to his mask and removed it. Without a word he dropped it to the ground. “I know you’re accustomed to killing. But do you really want to kill me in cold blood?” 

Another thunk, and a few laughs from the car ahead. Blake’s time was running out, and she knew it. He knew it. Her instincts were screaming at her to pull the trigger and go but something held her back. Staring down at the soldier she hesitated. His brown hair was cut short, his high cheekbones and soft chin reminding her of the sailors her dad used to fish with back at Menagerie. That wasn’t what stopped her. She had killed dozens of men that could have been her neighbors for the cause. It was what was different that stopped her. The serpent brand on his neck and the tribal tattoo running up his left cheek and circling one eye in a language she had never seen. Everything was a mystery, and curiosity stayed her hand. “You don’t know anything about me. Who are you?”

“A soldier. And I know enough. You’re trained. Some wet behind the ears kid isn’t going to sneak up on me, or hold a pistol like that. You know how to hold someone up at gunpoint and even surrounded by armed soldiers you stay calm. You’re not military and you’re alone hiding in a military train. You haven’t asked for money so you’re not a bandit, you’re a revolutionary. You haven’t shot me for racial crimes, so you’re an idealist.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I get it. I do. I’m fighting for a better world, a better future for all humanity. You have that same fire and conviction in your eyes.” Footsteps started towards them. Blake’s heart skipped a beat and her hands twitched. The soldier smiled. “Looks like time’s almost up. Either shoot me or don’t.” 

Blake’s finger pressed against the trigger. Who the hell were these guys? Her years with the White Fang had brought her into contact with many different and equally militant groups of human soldiers and huntsmen. None of them had described her as anything more than a mongrel. Even when pleading for their lives they only brought up their treatment of faunus like one would a household pet. Atlas had always discreetly filled the ranks of its elite with those most militantly anti-faunus after the horrors of the Great War. 

Blake met the soldier’s eyes. There was no veiled contempt or stifled guilt, only conviction. He seemed to sense her probe into her thoughts. “You wanted to know who I am? -

The keypad to the train door beeped obediently, and depressurized with a hiss. The soldier smiled. “I am legion. Hydra Dominatus.” 

The door opened, and four soldiers entered. Saw their comrade on his knees with a gun to his head. There was no hesitation or confusion in their movements, each spreading out at a run, raising their rifles and firing. Blake had expected bullets, but laser beams lanced through the air with tiny cracks. There was no time to dodge at this distance, the soldiers’ precision too much to overcome. Half a dozen shots struck Blake at once. Pierced her legs and chest.

With a small puff of smoke the shadow clone dissolved. 

Blake re-opened her eyes and an open sky replaced a phalanx of mysterious commandos. She exhaled softly, listening to the confused exclamations in the cart below her. “An idealist? Not anymore.” With a small leap she landed on a tree, letting the branch absorb her weight. It was a good thing she caught sleep when she could, the trip to Vale had just gotten a lot longer. 

Every step deeper into the outpost made Gasto’s heart beat faster until it felt like a fist was slamming into his chest with every beat. That never changed. Some other operatives claimed that it didn’t bother them, that eventually it became routine and even normal. For him it wasn’t. Even though Gasto had been all through this outpost, knew its every nook and cranny since he helped carve it from the rock, the walk towards the command center felt like a trial by fire every time. He had seen Astartes before, even operated with them dozens of times.

It was different. Before he had been an auxiliary, a valued but ultimately anonymous and simple part of a greater whole. They knew him by name sure, they knew all their agents. However, there wasn’t a focus on him. Gasto was terrified. Space Marines, the Emperor’s personal creations had summoned him specifically. There was no greater honor, even though it made his knees weak and his mouth dry no matter how many sips he took from his water cask. 

“Just man the fug up.” Gasto jumped as Lewis lightly punched his shoulder. Lewis flashed him a shit-eating grin before disappearing around the corner. 

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who had to go up to a demi-god and explain how he had let some teenage anarchist sneak up on him, interrogate him, and then make a clean get-away. 

The command center was a graveyard. A room designed to house dozens of comm operators, analysts, commanders, and multiple Astartes was empty save for three. John descended down towards them, passing deck after deck of cognitors, map displays and pict-casters designed to direct and monitor the Alpha Legion’s operations for an entire region. He wasn’t sure if the fact that they had emptied the command center for the meeting boded well or ill. A shiver ran up his spine. 

Each Astartes towered over him by at least three feet. They looked like walking tanks, encased in solid ceramite thick enough to pass for light vehicle armor and bulky enough that Gasto’s head would easily fit in their grip. Even approaching them required a concerted effort to overcome the awe just standing in their presence gave him. Their teal battle plate glimmered and shone, polished to a sheen. Under the sheen Gasto saw the age of each suit. Faint scratches and bullet holes that the arming servitors had missed or had been deemed unworthy of repair. Even Astartes liked their battle scars, to inspire awe or terror depending on who saw them. 

Aside from the battle scars, it was clear these were the Legion’s elite. Gasto had never seen them before in this outpost, and they each bore a score of triumphs on their armor. The names of slain xenos champions runically engraved across their warplate, past triumphs on distant worlds scrawled on various purity seals hanging all over their armor. A dozen additional layers of design and detail in their armor’s design, all engraved in gold and silver. 

Perhaps most telling were the weapons. Each a masterwork of forgecraft that would put even the god-forged death-dealers of his homeworld’s legends and fairy-tales to shame. Even among the Emperor’s finest and favored soldiers such weapons were rare. Gasto had no doubt that one such weapon would likely be worth more than his home city, if not home country. 

One of the Astartes turned to address him as he reached the bottom. “Agent Gasto Olinger.”

He made the sign of the Aquila against his chest and bowed. “Reporting as ordered my lord.”

The three scrutinized him, turning away from the table at the center of the floor. Gasto tried to keep his heart inside his chest, retreating back into his parade ground demeanor to keep his face expressionless. Hopefully expressionless. Three pairs of identical faces bore into his, their resemblance to each other uncanny. 

“Do you know why we summoned you?” One asked, resting an armored hand on the helmet sitting on the table in front of him.

Gasto took a second to consider his next words. “Because I failed my lord.”

One chuckled. It sounded like a steamroller crushing bones. “Failed? How did you fail Gasto?”

“I let someone ambush me and compromised the secrecy of-”

“We’ve seen your mission footage,” The second Astartes cut him off. “Watched it in real time. You responded to an unknown and managed to not only gather valuable intelligence but also protected the legion.” 

Gasto should have felt elated he wasn’t getting reprimanded, instead he just felt confused. “Valuable intelligence? Protected the legion? Forgive me my lords but I don’t see how I did either of those things.”

The first Astartes sighed. “Don’t be dense Gasto. We’re still very much in the dark about the full scope and limitations of the specific magik that is in widespread use here. Our psychically attuned, Librus and agent alike, are dumbfounded. We’ve managed to adapt, but our options are limited.”

“Any information on these ‘auras’,” The second continued, “is valuable. But most importantly you didn’t place the legion below your own life.” 

“Of course, anyone would do the same. That’s why you chose us.” 

“Indeed. History has proven that some aren’t always similarly inclined. But back to the point of why you’re here. We’ve reviewed your footage, but sometimes that isn’t enough to get a...feel for a person. What were your impressions of this combatant?” 

Gasto bit his lip and shrugged. “She was calm, but I could see the cageyness in her eyes. Highly stressed, seen it before in some recruits after shit really goes south. Had no idea what was going on or why we were there. Judging by her questions and tone she had interrogated people before, maybe as far as torture.”

“You mentioned she was an idealist.” 

“Look, I’ve read the debrief packet on this place, and I’ve been out there. It wasn’t hard to figure it out, you’ve got a society coming right out of a class war with the winners getting shafted by those on top and nobody gives a shit. That gets people fugging mad, especially the kids of those poor sods that fought and bled in those wars. Meanwhile you’ve got the kids from the poor sods who fought on the other side seeing these extremist groups like whiny, violent terrorists and getting even more fugging mad while the idiots on top are too blind to do anything about it.” 

The third pressed his mouth into a tight line and raised an eyebrow. “A very colorful assessment agent.” 

The weight of the fact he just swore in front of the people so far above his CO he’d need a telescope to see them sank in slowly. “I-”

“So an adolescent extremist who wants an ideal world and is willing to fight for it. Do you think she’s suitable?” 

Gasto opened his mouth to speak before realizing the question wasn’t addressed to him. The second looked down at the map and considered. “Judging by facial structure and vocal patterns she’s in the right age group. Certainly possesses the skills, and her weapon is identical in design parameters to those used by the so called ‘huntsmen’.”

The first nodded. “It would be extremely valuable to get a primary source on their abilities and tactics. So far our local recruits specificity is lacking.” 

“The question is would she be approachable and controllable? Idealists aren’t our preferred type.” 

“She is an experienced guerilla fighter, that necessitates a level of pragmatism.” 

“True, but idealists fight for a utopia. Such practicalities are forever out of reach and ill suited goals.”

“Perhaps, but any guerilla fighter tempers utopia with reality. Anyone who spends that much time in contact with the cruel and grim realities of state control and the biopolitical nature of government authority will see the necessities.” 

“Very well,” The first addressed the third, “I want you to keep an eye on her, see if you can approach her for what we want.” 

“As you say.”

“As for you Gasto, pack your kit and meet up with your team. We’re abandoning this outpost. You’ll be assigned to Captain Helios,” The second Astartes nodded in acknowledgement, “and re-assigned to the Vaccuo region. Understood?”

“Perfectly my lord.” Gasto turned and made to leave, but a voice stopped him.

It was Helios. “Before you go, while I commend your adaptability agent, I will not tolerate further sloppiness. Your sweep was incomplete and leaving yourself alone in hostile territory was an amateur mistake. I will not have my Legionaires fighting alongside incompetent agents. You will report to Agent Alyssa Meindoire with the rest of your squad for further training.” 

Gasto swallowed hard. “Yes my lord, I won’t disappoint. Hydra Dominatus.”

“Hydra Dominatus.” 


End file.
